as they neared their journey's end, and
could recognize, in the ruined houses and plantations, the wrecks of the
former happy homes of friends and neighbors.

They all went directly to the Oaks, where the Travillas were to find a
home until Ion could be made again comfortably habitable. It was late in
the afternoon of a cloudy, showery day that they found themselves actually
rolling quietly along the broad winding drive that led through the grounds
to the noble mansion they had left more than five years before.

Even here there were sad signs of neglect: the grounds had forgotten their
former neat and trim appearance, and the house needed paint and some
slight repairs. But this was all; and they felt it a cause for
thankfulness that things were no worse.

A group of relatives and retainers were gathered in the veranda to greet
them; an aged, white-haired man the central figure, around him three
ladies in deep mourning, a one-armed gentleman, and a crowd of children of
both sexes and all ages, from the babe in arms to the youth of sixteen;
while in the rear could be seen Mrs. Murray's portly figure, and strong,
sensible Scotch face, beaming with pleasure, relieved by a background of
dusky faces, lighted up with joy and expectation.

Mr. Dinsmore alighted first, gave his hand to his wife, and leaving young
Horace to attend to Rosebud, hastened to meet his father.

The old man tottered forward and fell upon his neck, weeping bitterly. "My
son, my boa, my only one now; I have lost all--everything--wife, sons,
home; all swept away, nothing left to my old age but you."

"Yes, that's it always," sneered a sharp voice near at hand; "daughters
count for nothing; grandchildren are equally valuable. Sons, houses, and
lands are the only possessions worth having."

"Enna, how can you!" exclaimed Mrs. Howard.

But neither father nor brother seemed to hear, or heed the unkind,
unfilial remark. The old man was sobbing on his son's shoulder; he
soothing him as tenderly as ever he had soothed wife or daughter.

"My home is yours as long as you choose to make it so, my dear father; and
Roselands shall be restored, and your old age crowned with the love and
reverence of children and children's children."

Hastily recovering himself, the old gentleman released his son, gave an
affectionate greeting to Rose, and catching sight of young Horace, now a
handsome youth of nineteen, embraced him, exclaiming, "Ah, yes, here is
another so