o came within his zone of influence and especially
when these affairs evinced any irregularity.

"Randolph again?" he asked quickly.

Tom walked to the window, and stood looking out into the street. His
voice shook as he answered:

"Ten days ago I learned that my brother was dead, Mr. Isham."

The president glanced at the broad back of his teller. Mr. Isham's voice
was firm, his face certainly betrayed no feeling, but a flitting gleam
of satisfaction might have been seen in his eye.

"Of course, Tom, you may go," he answered.

Thus came to pass an event in the lives of Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, that
journey to New York (their first) of two nights and two days to fetch
Honora. We need not dwell upon all that befell them. The first view of
the Hudson, the first whiff of the salt air on this unwonted holiday,
the sights of this crowded city of wealth,--all were tempered by the
thought of the child coming into their lives. They were standing on
the pier when the windows were crimson in the early light, and at
nine o'clock on that summer's morning the Albania was docked, and the
passengers came crowding down the gang-plank. Prosperous tourists, most
of them, with servants and stewards carrying bags of English design and
checked steamer rugs; and at last a ruddy-faced bonne with streamers
and a bundle of ribbons and laces--Honora--Honora, aged eighteen months,
gazing at a subjugated world.

"What a beautiful child! exclaimed a woman on the pier."

Was it instinct or premonition that led them to accost the bonne?

"Oui, Leffingwell!" she cried, gazing at them in some perplexity. Three
children of various sizes clung to her skirts, and a younger nurse
carried a golden-haired little girl of Honora's age. A lady and
gentleman followed. The lady was beginning to look matronly, and no
second glance was required to perceive that she was a person of opinion
and character. Mr. Holt was smaller than his wife, neat in dress and
unobtrusive in appearance. In the rich Mrs. Holt, the friend of the
Randolph Leffingwells, Aunt Mary was prepared to find a more vapidly
fashionable personage, and had schooled herself forthwith.

"You are Mrs. Thomas Leffingwell?" she asked. "Well, I am relieved." The
lady's eyes, travelling rapidly over Aunt Mary's sober bonnet and brooch
and gown, made it appear that these features in Honora's future guardian
gave her the relief in question. "Honora, this is your aunt."

Honora smiled from amidst th