hin my power to do
so.--Believe me, very faithfully yours,

'SEPTIMUS BROWN.'

He had not read this letter to the end, and had hardly washed the soap
from his face, before he was in his daughter-in-law's room. She was
there with her child, still in bed,--thinking, thinking, thinking
whether there would ever come an end to her misery. 'It has come,' said
the old man.

'What has come?' she asked, jumping up with the baby in her arms. But
she knew what had come, for he had the letter open in his hands.

'They have pardoned him. The absurdity of the thing! Pardoning a man
whom they know to be innocent, and to have been injured!'

But the 'absurdity of the thing,' as the old squire very naturally
called it, was nothing to her now. He was to come back to her. She would
be in his arms that day. On that very day she would once again hold up
her boy to be kissed by his father.

'Where is he? When will he come? Of course I will go to him! You will
make them have the waggonnette at once; will you not? I will be dressed
in five minutes if you will go. Of course I will go to fetch him.'

But this the squire would not allow. The carriage should be sent, of
course, and if it met his son on the road, as was probable, there would
be no harm done. But it would not be well that the greeting between the
husband and the wife should be in public. So he went out to order the
carriage and to prepare himself to accompany it, leaving her to think
of her happiness and to make herself ready for the meeting. But when
left to herself she could hardly compose herself so as to brush her hair
and give herself those little graces which should be pleasant to his
eye. 'Papa is coming,' she said to her boy over and over again. 'Papa is
coming back. Papa will be here; your own, own, own papa.' Then she threw
aside the black gown, which she had worn since he left her, and chose
for her wear one which he himself had taken pride in buying for
her,--the first article of her dress in the choice of which he had been
consulted as her husband; and with quick unsteady hand she pulled out
some gay ribbon for her baby. Yes;--she and her boy would once again be
bright for his sake;--for his sake there should again be gay ribbons and
soft silks. 'Papa is coming, my own one; your own, own papa!' and then
she smothered the child with kisses.

While they were sitting at breakfast at Puritan Grange, the same news
reached Mr. and Mrs. Bolton. The letter to