-lamps. "To-morrow is the
hallowed rest-day of the Lord, and our hearts, so long restless from
expectation, will feel the grateful calm of assured happiness. One who
returns after a long journey to the bosom of home, in health and safety,
has peculiar calls for gratitude and praise. He should bless the God of
the traveller for having given his angels charge concerning him, and
shielding him from unknown dangers. You feel all this, my son."

She looked at him with an anxious, questioning glance. She feared that
the mysticism of Germany might have obscured the brightness of his
Christian faith.

"I _am_ grateful, my mother," he answered with deep seriousness,
"grateful to God for the blessings of this hour. This has been one of
the happiest evenings of my life. Surely it is worth years of absence to
be welcomed to such a home, and by such pure, loving hearts,--hearts in
which I can trust without hypocrisy and without guile."

"Believe all hearts true, my son, till you prove them false."

"Faith is a gift of heaven, not an act of human will," he replied. Then
I remembered what Richard Clyde had said of him, and I thought of it
again when alone in my chamber.

Edith peeped in through the door that divided our rooms.

"Have we not had a charming evening?" she asked.

"Yes, _very_," I answered.

"How fond you are of that little adverb _very_," she exclaimed with a
laugh; "you make it sound so expressively. Well, is not Ernest very
interesting?"

"Very."

"The most interesting person you ever saw?"

"You question me too closely, Edith. It will not do for me to speak as
extravagantly as you do. I am not his sister, and the praise that falls
so sweetly from your tongue, would sound bold and inappropriate from
mine. I never knew before how strong a sister's love could be, Edith.
Surely you can never feel a stronger passion."

"Never," she cried earnestly, and coming in, she sat down on the side of
the bed and unbound the ribbon from her slender waist. "The misfortune
that has set me apart from my youthful companions will prevent me from
indulging in the dreams of love. I know my mother does not wish me to
marry, and I have never thought of the possibility of leaving her. I
would not dare to give this frail frame and too tenderly indulged heart
into the keeping of one who could never, never bestow the love, the
boundless love, which has surrounded me from infancy, like the firmament
of heaven. I have been sought in