h, where they had
grown up together. Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room
in search of one who had not yet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn
from his seat by the fireside and was standing near the door, with his
face averted so that his features could be discerned only by the
flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall. But Prudence called to
him in a cheerful and kindly tone:

"Come, Robert," said she, "won't you shake hands with your old
friend?"

Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled
powerfully and overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed toward
Prudence, seized her hand, and pressed it to his bosom.

"There, there, Robert," said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her
hand, "you must not give me too warm a welcome."

And now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family,
Prudence again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield's right
hand. She was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities,
gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused
among her merriest words and deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that
she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings
like a spell over her companions. Such as she had been in her days of
innocence, so did she appear this evening. Her friends, in the
surprise and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had
ever left them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their
affection. In the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with
altered eyes, but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that
their own Prudence had come back to them, and were thankful. John
Inglefield's rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it
grew warm and merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till
the room rang again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth.
The brave young minister became as frolicsome as a schoolboy. Mary,
too, the rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from
the stem and trampled in the dust. And as for Robert Moore, he gazed
at Prudence with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she,
with sweet maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him.

In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its
own depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness.
When the clock struck eight, Prudence poured out her father's
customary draught of herb tea, whi