ly carefully never used, and an exemplary
pen-wiper, which was as unsullied as might be expected of a wiper which
had only wiped that pen which was never dipped into that inkstand which
had been always empty. The inkstand was supported on the other side of
the Bible by an equally immaculate ivory paper-knife.

The large leather library chairs were arranged in precisely the proper
angle at the corners of the table, and the smaller chairs stood under the
windows two by two. All was cold and clean, and locked up--all--except a
portrait that hung against the wall, and below which Mrs. Simcoe stopped,
still holding the miniature in her hand.

It was the likeness of a lovely girl, whose rich, delicate loveliness,
full of tender but tremulous character, seemed to be a kind of
foreshadowing of Hope Wayne. The eyes were of a deep, soft darkness,
that held the spectator with a dreamy fascination. The other features
were exquisitely moulded, and suffused with an airy, girlish grace,
so innocent that the look became almost a pathetic appeal against the
inevitable griefs of life.

As Mrs. Simcoe stood looking at it and at the miniature she held, the
sadness which had followed the sweetness died away, and her face resumed
the old rigid inscrutability. She held the miniature straight before her,
and directly under the portrait; and, as she looked, the apparent pride
of the one and the tremulous earnestness of the other indescribably
blended into an expression which had been long familiar to her, for it
was the look of Hope Wayne.

While she thus stood, unconscious of the time that passed, the sun had
set and the room was darkening. Suddenly she heard a sound close at her
side, and started. Her hand instinctively closed over the miniature and
concealed it.

There stood a man kindly regarding her. He was not an old man, but there
was a touch of quaintness in his appearance. He did not speak when she
saw him, and for several minutes they stood silent together. Then their
eyes rose simultaneously to the picture, met again, and Mrs. Simcoe,
putting out her hand, said, in a low voice,

"Lawrence Newt!"

He shook her hand warmly, and made little remarks, while she seemed to
be studying into his face, as if she were looking for something she did
not find there. Every body did it. Every body looked into Lawrence Newt's
face to discover what he was thinking of, and nobody ever saw. Mrs.
Simcoe remembered a time when she had seen.

"It