s all that day. Mr. Greylston still mute and ungracious; his
sister shrank away from him. In that mood she scarcely knew him; and her
face was grave, and her voice so sad, even the servants wondered
what was the matter. Margaret Greylston had fully overcome all angry,
reproachful feelings against her brother. So far her soul had peace, yet
she mourned for his love, his kind words, and pleasant smiles; and she
longed to tell him this, but his coldness held her back. Mr. Greylston
found his comfort in every way consulted; favourite dishes were silently
placed before him; sweet flowers, as of old, laid upon his table. He
knew the hand which wrought these loving acts. But did this knowledge
melt his heart? In a little while we shall see.

And the third morning dawned. Yet the cloud seemed in no wise lifted.
John Greylston's portrait hung in the parlour; it was painted in his
young days, when he was very handsome. His sister could not weary of
looking at it; to her this picture seemed the very embodiment of beauty.
Dear, unconscious soul, she never thought how much it was like herself,
or even the portrait of her which hung in the opposite recess--for
brother and sister strikingly resembled each other. Both had the same
high brows, the same deep blue eyes and finely chiselled features,
the same sweet and pleasant smiles; there was but one difference: Miss
Margaret's hair was of a pale golden colour, and yet unchanged; she wore
it now put back very smoothly and plainly from her face. When John was
young, his curls were of so dark a brown as to look almost black in the
shade. They were bleached a good deal by time, but yet they clustered
round his brow in the same careless, boyish fashion as of old.

Just now Miss Margaret could only look at her brother's picture with
tears. On that very morning she stood before it, her spirit so full of
tender memories, so crowded with sad yearnings, she felt as though they
would crush her to the earth. Oh, weary heart! endure yet "a little
while" longer. Even now the angel of reconciliation is on the wing.

Whilst John Greylston sat alone upon the foot of the porch at the front
of the house, and his sister stood so sadly in the parlour, the city
stage came whirling along the dusty turnpike. It stopped for a few
minutes opposite the lane which led to John Greylston's place. The door
was opened, and a grave-looking young man sprang out. He was followed by
a fairy little creature, who clapped